


this is where i hide (leave me a space beside)

by happyout



Category: The Wilds (TV 2020)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternative Backstory, Canon Related, F/F, Gen, POV Leah Rilke, References to Depression, strangers to i guess we are bffs now, unavoidable jeff mentions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29918127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happyout/pseuds/happyout
Summary: There is no ideal way to be hit by a car outside of a party, but if there had been the option to choose the specifics, she would have gone with a way which did not involve Fatin Jadmani still being nearby waiting for her ride. Or maybe she would have.[alternative backstory events based on Leah and Fatin being at the same party in 1x06. begins post-accident]
Relationships: Fatin Jadmani & Leah Rilke
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is completed [57,125k - 18/18]  
> Chapters will be posted daily

Even the sheer curtains were not wafting at the open window. The only indicator of anything existent in the bedroom was the changing of shapes on the face of her digital alarm clock which sat beside empty water glasses and pain prescriptions on the bedside table. A clock which her back had been turned to since before unwelcome interruption to her wallowing had thought it helpful to let in fresh air, and which still had not been looked at since. An hour. More likely hours. Had there been a running total of the time spent curled staring at nothing while thinking of everything, it would have told a sorry tale of lost days and wasted weeks. And only the tangible fracture of a rib, now present alongside the pieces of the already shattered girl who had been confined to the familiar indentation in her mattress, was the difference between before and after her misery met the hood of a Chevrolet Malibu. 

She winced as an engine from outside carried in through the window – the noise of what she would have heard had she not favored melody over mindfulness that night – taking her right back to the moment headlights blinded. Her physical wounds might have validated the occupancy of her bed since then, but they were an agonizing price to pay for approved solitude. The opened window was further reason the pain not worth the payoff. That her parents had afford more space after leaving the hospital had been welcomed, but that they not approach her at all was the bigger wish. 

Her alarm clock buzzed for noon. Time for another dose. Or maybe not. Her mother was better at keeping on top of that. In any case, her rib was again reminding her of its state, but there was no desire to dry swallow or struggle to the nearest faucet for a refill. And especially not as voices began somewhere else in the house. To stick a finger in her ear so that her stewing not be disturbed by what was surely the latest debate of her well-being would have taken energy she did not have. Instead, she suffered through the garble in hope it was not another psych consult being arranged for her. 

The voices stopped only when a knock came upon the door, an irritatingly gentle one. Any benefit to fewer attempts to get her out of her room had been outweighed by the now excessively tender tone of those who entered it – with words spoken as if any might break another of her bones and with offers of water glasses never not sounding like a plea. That her parents evidently understood their callings unwanted only added to the frustration of them. It was the same tentative creak which always came whenever the door opened that she heard next. 

"Leah, honey, are you awake? You have a visitor." 

"I don't want to see—" 

A draft rolled over her back and pulled at the sheer curtains signalling her lazily mumbled response had not been enough to prevent the now wide-open door. It was small comfort that even a firmer rejection of whoever stood in the hallway would not have meant her mother reconsidered. Any excuse to enter her world had been sought. Every excuse was taken. 

Habitual indignation distracted somewhat from the sharpness in her chest as she began to roll over on the bed just enough to fake receptiveness. She was long passed the façade where her parents were concerned, but a visitor would need humoring. Any other consciousness of her pain was lost to the prospect of having to entertain without forewarning to mentally prepare. Not that days locked away alone had not been time enough for such. But to have figured out her piece for Ian might have been misunderstood by whatever forces were dictating her misfortunes as a sign she wished for opportunity to say it. She had still not settled into a comfortable position in her bed by the time footsteps entered her room and the door closed with her visitor on the wrong side of it. 

"So, my mom thinks grapes are medicinal, or some shit. And your mom told her you were discharged already, but I should bring them anyway. And I didn't really have a choice in the matter because my mom said we would stop by on the way to prac—this other thing she also insisted she drive me to" —

Perfume was the first giveaway. Though only by a split-second, because the apparent urgency to deliver the words meant Leah heard them almost as soon as the scent began swirling in the same door draft as before. Yet the clue had come quickly enough to let it be known she need not concern herself with confirming if Ian stood in her room or not and was instead free to concentrate entirely on identifying the voice of who did. She drew a blank, and turned her head so that her eyes might answer the question other senses could not. It was only for Fatin Jadmani’s own looking anywhere but back at her that she was able to stay fixed on the girl for long enough to conclude her presence was not a side-effect of the pain pills. 

— “and like, my dad out of town this weekend, so I get nobody in my corner, and you get grapes." 

Leah watched as Fatin fell quiet but continued to take in all corners of her room: her last surviving stuffed animal; and every vinyl choice; the silly wooden squirrel from Claremont Canyon on the window; and the sheer curtains she hated. Fatin’s perfume, now even more detectable, was not unpleasant; but it was overbearing all the same, in the way unexpected things tended to be. And Fatin Jadmani – the basic bitch, who walked the hallways of East Bay Academy of Art like a sore thumb – standing in her bedroom with a bunch of grapes tucked in crossed arms and seemingly judging, qualified as the most unexpected of all. 

Leah broke the silence in the only way she could muster, and was not sure which of them looked the most relieved for it, "Okay..." 

"Okay! Grapes,” said Fatin as she dumped them on the bed. "You got them. And I'm going to leave now because this is super fucking awkward. And if it's fine with you, we're just going to pretend I've said all that heartfelt get well soon shit people are supposed to say but would be weird for me to because like, I don't even know you." 

That Leah had been overwhelmed by the sudden shift in spirit in her room would not be inaccurate to say. Fatin was a chaos of noise and of animation, which had not been there five minutes before. Even in better times, to keep up and offer a response as quickly as she stood in anticipation of, would have been an ask. Hooped earrings bounced off her shoulders as her head nodded seeking agreement for her proposal to swerve any further mutual embarrassment and for the even more desired cue to exit. But it would also not be inaccurate to say the frankness with which Fatin had spoken made for a refreshing change from sickly-sweet mothering endured for so long. It may even have qualified as satisfying were it not for the fact it happened within the room Leah preferred only she sees, and while she lay bedridden wearing the dregs of her pyjama drawer which had not yet been burned though. 

"Umm, tell your mom I said thanks." 

"Whatever. Eat them. Don't eat them. If you ask me, they've already been wasted by not being made into wine, so who cares if they end up in the trash?" she laughed. 

"I think your mom would care." 

Fatin’s eyebrows raised as she pointed toward the bed and clicked her fingers to make the unmistakeable sound of a _gotcha_ , "But not enough to bring them to you herself instead of forcing me to stand in your sickbay like a lameass fucking fruit fairy." She turned to leave. 

"If we're doing awkward—I didn't get chance to say thank you. For helping me, you know...” Leah pushed herself up on her elbows in an attempt to sit upright; something which might have meant their interaction marginally easier to bear had it began like that. “You didn't need to go to the hospital with me." 

"Oh, I did. But only for the hot guy driving the ambulance." 

In hindsight, a rejection of the idea that Fatin accompanied her out of concern was the most likely response given they existed as strangers on the night and had progressed to barely acquainted in the room. And that it be wrapped in a quip was for the benefit of them both. But it was also plainly Fatin – as best as Leah had been able to gather from their brief time together. Perceptively witty. And unapologetically her. 

The offer of thanks was both regretted and not, just as it was blown off but also perhaps privately embraced to spare them a level of sincerity their minutes old connection was not ready for. 

To return the same deflection in kind was the appropriate thing to do, "Right...the driver," Leah said, as she made no effort to reach for the grapes. 

A stillness fell in the room again as neither girl moved; and it was not unlike the one which hung in the air prior to Fatin’s arrival, only Leah had shared that with nobody except her innermost thoughts. She stared at the grapes and then stared at the wall instead, convinced Fatin had been watching her process the gift and found it so unbearable to witness that her own gaze had shifted away from the fruit also. It was not as if joint effort to pretend the other was not present would do them any favor, but in the absence of a better idea, Leah’s eyes had found the wall. And there they stayed. Until she reached a limit of unbearable herself. She turned to Fatin without any clue of what to follow with, and was not surprised when words did not choose themselves. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Fatin snorted. “You have concussion—if you’re lucky, you might not remember this ever happened. I don’t have that privilege.” 

“That’s not how concussion works, and I don’t feel very privileged right—” 

There was no chance to halt Fatin’s dart as her attention was captured by something on the other side of the room. Leah swallowed a now pointless objection and froze in expectation she would soon be left mortified as her possessions were being mocked. She kicked a blanket over the annotations of _The Nature of Her_. To see those was the only privilege she knew. It was not until Fatin began gesturing wildly out of the window that it become apparent the very worst thing which could be happening was in fact not. And yet Leah’s face screamed for the timeout she could not voice her need for. Her bedroom being breached was an agony enough, but now it had been done so by somebody who entered it deeper than the doorway. And by Fatin Jadmani, of all people. With her perfume, and hula-hoop jewellery, and her ridiculous pink fur. 

"Oh, hell no! That is not happening.” As quickly as Fatin had made for the window, she turned on her heels, and all that prevented her being stood right at the foot of the bed was Leah’s refusal to accept it being true. “This has been... uncomfortable. And it's time to end it before our mothers schedule more playdates. Bye." 

"Bye." Leah aimed for impassive but was not sure it landed as such; and it was only for Fatin letting out a noise which sounded more pained than any which Leah’s injuries had caused her that she thought it possible a failure to convey she wanted this to end as much as Fatin did may have been missed by her visitor when making to leave. 

"But for real though,” Fatin paused, grip on the door handle, “I hope your rib isn't stabbing your tit or whatever for too long." 

And then she was finally gone; hard soles clacking down the hallway and stairs much too quickly to be sensible. As was the way Leah heaved herself forward and onto her knees to strain a view out of the window. Seconds later, hooped earrings were seen bouncing on shoulders again as Fatin attempted to run without actually running down the length of the driveway to interject in whatever conversation was happening at her mother’s car. Farewells followed in no time at all, and the same engine noise which had sounded as Fatin arrived, took her away again. 

Perfume still lingered as Leah settled herself back onto her pillows. In time, it would be gone just as Fatin herself was; and then only the grapes left behind would prevent Leah pretending Fatin had not been there at all – a process she was sure had already begun in the car now on its way to wherever else Fatin was to be taken against her will. That Leah was sure Fatin would have no more desire to tell anybody at school how her Saturday afternoon was filled than she had for that particular story being told was one less worry. 

She looked to the grapes beside her on the mattress. Her least favourite fruit. She was not ungrateful to Mrs Jadmani, but Fatin had been right – they are not medicinal to make up for the taste. Not even expensive ones from that organic store next to the kale café she and Ian liked to joke about whenever their classmates Instagrammed being there. Fucking Ian. As nightmarish as it had been having Fatin invade her room, it was still preferable to him bringing grapes instead. Leah was halfway reaching for the bunch when the door again creaked that annoyingly slow creak. 

"That was nice of them, don't you think?" Leah’s mother said taking two steps inside before being given reason to take no more. 

"I'm gonna go back to sleep now." 


	2. Chapter 2

Leah’s return to school was ordeal in itself. No kid desired being the punchline of after-party gossip in the hallways. Not even when the shame was for the minor transgression of tapping out or for passing out. Leah Rilke was not a talking point, period. Until she was. And she could not have become so for more spectacular reason. 

Her five minutes of fame – though a constant stream of taunt and misrepresentation in the moment – were exactly that and soon over, however. Nobody cares much for the girl they heard got so drunk she wandered into the road once fists are being thrown on the South Lawn or a lunch tray is dropped in the cafeteria. High school moves quickly like that. But being buffeted from shoulder to shoulder as she moved through busy buildings was a different bother, and one which her rib could not front as the rest of her had. Being last to leave a classroom so that she might avoid the bustle was only partly by intention. It took so long to stand from her seat and find a comfortable enough way of carrying her backpack that she could not have made it to the hallways any sooner. She missed when she ached only for the weight of her textbooks. She missed the final bell of the day signaling time for home even more. Absence meant falling behind. And falling behind meant catching up. 

Her locker was at least on the way to the library. That it not be on the bottom row was purely luck. But she still psyched herself for juggling items in and out of it as soon as she turned the final corner, still cast her mind back to the reason for failure in previous attempts so that she might finally formulate a more successful plan of attack. There was not even an audience of one when her locker came into view by the door for the South Lawn; kids scattered like the sand in the sea breeze which they all made for whenever the final bell rang on a late-spring Friday. 

The last number of her combination popped the lock and she set about digging for the chemistry textbook which good sense earlier in the day would have told her to not bury. The door to the South Lawn opened behind her as she gripped algebra between her chin and chest until a hand was free of a poetry anthology. Who had joined her in the hallway was heard before she could look up to see them. Her eyes rolled at the chance of it. That there may be a future coming together had not occurred. If it had, that such a thing coincide with a moment of obvious difficulty would not have been a preference. 

Fatin walked as she always did – wire in her ear, phone out in front, as if her life was so enthralling it warranted being broadcast to whoever had the pleasure of her attention. Yet Leah found herself watching the latest episode; right up until the moment Fatin realized she was a hallway obstacle to be avoided in more ways than one. And avoided she was. Both girls broke eye contact in a familiar beat and returned to their own doings of lockers and textbooks and airing conversations of the weekend’s indecent prospects. Uninterrupted stride increased the distance between them to comfortable as Leah privately reconsidered her opinion of video calls now one had conveniently filed away their refusal to acknowledge each other as a case of one party being otherwise engaged as opposed to both being uneasily offish. 

A reflection more flustered than justified was held in a cracked mirror on the inside of her locker door. A mirror she would not look at. She struggled with textbooks in one arm and her backpack in the other, while a third hand she did not have resumed trying to make papers and pages fit where they would not willingly. That it all crashed to the floor was not a surprise. She let go of whatever she had managed to catch, resigned to it being easier to start over on the ground; if she could only get down there herself. That it made for a pitiful sight as she did was already known to her even before a pair of pristine Nikes appeared under her nose. 

“Girl, this invalid shit is not a cute look.” Fatin crouched to the floor and set her own belongings to the side. “Love yourself, please.” 

Leah huffed, “Yeah... I’m not really in the mood for—” 

“Invaluable advice?” 

“You.” 

Fatin's cackle echoed in the emptiness of the hallway, “I’m going to put that sass down to it being the end of a very long week and help you anyway, because I see a job through once I’m on my knees.” 

“Christ,“ Leah groaned as she got a head start on climbing to her feet and because she just as much needed to not be so close to such an absence of a filter. 

“If he buys me dinner first. Not like he’s my savior!” 

Every contribution Leah made to their conversation had only provided opportunity for Fatin to sink them lower. The latest wisecrack from her helper would not be dignified with a response and she waited silently instead for everything to be gathered up from the floor. The consideration of the gesture did nothing to compensate for the hellishly long time it was taking. 

When Fatin stood again, with arms full and a face which said she was not especially glad of it, Leah immediately began to relieve her of the load. 

“That's a lot of textbooks to not be leaving in your locker on a Friday,” Fatin observed, as the backpack was stuffed in haste. "You can’t swap invalid for teacher’s pet—that isn’t cute either.” 

“Well, when you miss school after being hit by a car you kinda have to make up for lost time. And that's a bit rich of you—why are you still here?” 

“If you ask Mr Seitz, I cursed at him. But if you ask me, I cursed in conversation with him. He didn’t understand the difference and held me back to clear it up.” 

“And did you?” Leah did not care. 

“The bell went twenty minutes ago and I only just left his room, so no.” 

Leah twisted her arms between the straps of her backpack, “Don’t let me keep you even longer.” 

She had not intended to trap Fatin into the impossible choice between acknowledging even more of her weekend had been lost to helping Leah or accidentally confirming she did not mind; but when Fatin stood with eyes wide enough to suggest that was the decision she was weighing up, Leah had made for the door to the South Lawn before she could meet the outcome. She glanced back into the hallway only when glass was between them, and watched for longer than necessary as Fatin disappeared around a corner. 

The library was thankfully only a short walk away. Time enough to consider herself lucky that she had not found Fatin still at her locker expecting some sort of continuation, but not so long that she had time to contemplate if she would have obliged or ran. 

Mrs Feeney, as always, was stationed at the library reception desk when Leah entered. They exchanged smiles with ease, and pleasantries followed. 

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Mrs Feeney started, “but the school paper students got here before you this time and have taken the corner you’ve been using.” 

Leah subtly glanced to the desks over by the humanities section. He was there. She knew he would be. Ian’s name was on almost every page of the paper printed while he had been enrolled. It was the only reason she read it. 

“Actually... I can’t stay today.” There were worse lies to tell. “I was just wanting to return a book.” 

Leah sat her backpack onto the counter and began rummaging through its contents for something she could pretend she had no further use for. She did not recognize it the second she saw it sandwiched between her own project folders – sheet music. _Ode to Joy in D Minor_ , though that meant nothing to her. But if not hers, then whose?  _ Shit _ . 

+++

Monday morning traffic and the need to stop for gas had conspired together to prolong Leah’s ride to school, but running late was not the main reason a quick exit would be made from her mother’s SUV. It had all the space the parent of one child did not need, and yet none in which Leah could hide from attempts to bring to the surface a truth which it would do neither of them any good to establish. 

The route to school never changed even when gridlocked. Nor did the point along it where they began their dance of vague questions and evasive answers. The type you ask in the absence of a clue how to target and in the hope them applying a hundred different ways might bring about disclosure of any sort. The type you give when you know certain disclosures would shatter a world. It was a dance of reassurance and of false promise; that anything could be said, that everything had. 

It took only three dances after a car hit her for Leah to be certain if she checked her mother’s search history she would find results theorizing more joy may be found getting through to a distressed child in the confines of one. She saw the logic each time the seatbelt became a ligature only two corners after setting off from home. 

Not even the radio disguised the silence which had always descended by the time they were two corners from school; its idle chit-chat was an unhelpful reminder of what mother and daughter ought to be able to do. 

Leah's head rested against the passenger window as the day’s weather report began. Every bump in the road caused one above her temple; and whether it was smart during recovery from concussion or not, she let it happen. To sit face forward would have been a greenlight for a second round of probing – not that her mother ever needed such indication. 

“I bought your tickets last night,” Maryann said, “paid the few dollars extra for paper ones because you just never know with these e-tickets on the day.” It would have been easy enough to let Leah know at the time, but those certain internet searches will have said to wait until they were in a car. “I got them for the Saturday, as always. And I got two again... because well, I didn’t know if...” 

The San Fransico Literary Festival was an annual summer gift, a well done for the school year. One which Ian had always been willing to accept as a free day-out. 

Leah closed her eyes in the hope that, if her mother’s face had a look of expectation but she did not see it, then she may get away with not having to respond to an obvious attempt at baiting over Ian. But the Monday morning traffic once again worked against her, bringing the car to a halt, and she could sense a now free Maryann was watching her instead of the road. 

“It's months away, Mom. Anything could happen.” 

Anything could. That Ian take advantage of the ticket however, was one of the more unlikely outcomes as thing stood. 

“Stay friends if you can, Leah,” Maryann said earnestly. 

There would be no response to that whether her mother’s eyes were on her not. Every mention of Ian's name caused a pang of regret for ever thinking it a good idea to not correct the assumption her break-up had been with him. It was easy cover; one which answered questions on her behalf and was not wholly a lie. But in the moment of deciding it preferable to put a face and a reason to her troubles rather than have her parents hound, she had missed that spinning such a narrative would undoubtedly mean every reference to her troubles which followed be spoken in break-up terms she did not wish to confront. Her eyes remained clsoed to the person making her. 

“Did you not sleep enough?” 

It was neither plain concern nor chide, but a mix of both; as most of Maryann’s attempts were. Leah opened her eyes again, and for the first time, the sight of multicoloured-hair beneath slouch beanies had been reason for relief rather than ribbing, for it meant their drive was surely nearing the end. 

“I slept fine, Mom,” she sighed.

“Don’t forget your father will be picking you up instead—I offered to run the Rickards at 173 to the airport this afternoon.” 

“I won’t forget.” Leah straightened her back as school appeared on the corner. “Tell him he can wait on the street. I can manage walking further than the entrance hall now.” 

“I’ll tell him.” 

Leah unbuckled, but remained in her seat as the car continued passed ample space to stop and let her out, and then turned onto the school grounds. Her mother was not one to take hints. Neither was she one for explicit instruction. There was more give where her father was concerned but she expected the messenger would not deliver as asked to. In any case, there was a whole day at school to get through before her arrangements for the end of it mattered. 

She pushed the car door closed and began her walk to the building; backpack only somewhat easier to be wearing after a couple more days recovery; and with somebody else’s project folder in hand. It had sat in her bedroom with her all weekend. Taunting. With both its own presence and its potential to result in another’s at her house for a second time. But Fatin had not called to collect it. That it be unimportant had crossed Leah’s mind, but the only conclusion which could be comfortably made was that Fatin did not need it enough to show herself, and that was not sufficient reason to forget about returning it at all so they might avoid meeting again. 

Having the folder in her possession for so long had at least allowed chance to rehearse the exchange. Swift and silent. Step one was to be carrying it in her hand. She flicked its corner as she scanned the entrance hall for signature signs. Wire in an ear, phone out in front. Slogan tees, and skinny jeans. None were found on the lawns either. Fatin was eventually spotted by the auditorium; her company fully embraced by school-favorite, Tyler Gold. The only thing brighter than both their smiles was Fatin’s choice of electric-yellow tee. _‘_ _Fries before guys_ _’_. It had to be ironic. 

Leah watched, and waited for what felt like a longer time than her drive to school had, for Fatin to be alone before making her way over. 

“This ended up in my backpack,” she said with an arm outstretched and one foot already poised for her getaway. 

“Well, hey girl.” The remnant of the smile for Tyler Gold was still on Fatin’s face as she took the folder and only then scanned her eyes over the contents to identify what it was. “This technically belongs to the music department, but thank you?” 

“What do you play?” 

The question was already asked before Leah had known anything about it. An unconscious mirroring of a good a mood. One not meant for her. Fatin’s friendliness was leftovers, and the question, an instinctive response to being on the receiving end. That is all small-talk is. That is all they were doing. 

“Not this basic shit,” Fatin laughed. “My darling mother arranged for me to tutor the spotty-faced, halfwit kid of one of her clients who – luck would fucking have it – goes to this school. But like, I don’t actually do it because fuck that. I give him ten, keep the forty. We pass music which I... borrow from school between us each week so his mom thinks it’s legit.” 

“Surely two-hundred dollars a month is enough for a real tutor; who tutors, not morally corrupts?” 

“Tell his mom that, and I will kill you. The dumb bitch is bankrolling my caffeine addiction.” 

It was still only small-talk. 

“So...” Leah smirked, “the whole cursing at Mr Seitz thing being the reason you were still—” 

“Fuck off.” 

Leah took a step backward. A reflex. One for the purpose of again being at the distance she should have kept to begin with but which was lost to civility apparently being infectious. She had no reply as it faded, and instead pulled her sleeve back to look at her watch as if it would give her an out. 

Fatin continued her rebuttal, “That did happen, FYI. It was third period, not last. But you can still fuck off.” 

Leah took it literally. A smile had been on Fatin’s face as she did. Not like the one there at the beginning which was plain in its nature, if not its true target. The one there as Leah turned her back had been harder to decipher. Riled, but playful in the kind of way which was definitely a cue to approach, but which could be as much an offer to laugh things off as it might be a trap to walk into. Leah’s feet walked in the opposite direction.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a time when seeing Fatin at school did not register, or it did but the sighting was insignificant to Leah's day. The next throw-away  installment of an in-joke, at most. A way to make herself feel better for not owning anything hemp either. But Leah  _ saw _ Fatin all over school now. Ever since the morning she had walked into the entrance hall with the intention to have her eyes spot the girl, they never failed to. And there was no longer any punchline involved when they did. 

Weekends were a chance to play a different game with herself; one where she thought of a car pulling up at her house to reassemble her with mango Jarritos and jokes of Shetland ponies, and a promise that she could again be the most intriguing of all. Though she knew it was a game she would not win. The odds were better of a car bringing Fatin Jadmani to her door again. 

Leah looked to her alarm clock as the sun's final rays dipped behind the houses across the street: nine forty-five, give or take. Late enough on a Sunday night to declare the weekend passed free of hoop-earrings and fur on her porch, just as the prior week at school had passed free of an encounter once the project folder returned. But the end of the weekend meant it was soon time to again navigate hallways. Doctor Vera said routine was beneficial, and Leah had no mind to accuse a psychiatrist of not knowing their stuff; but even so, she saw no benefit to a cycle of only two days peace from five of adolescent pressures. 

Doctor Vera had appeared while at the hospital, between Leah’s x-rays being explained and waiting for the porter to take her to the ward for the night. She had worn her spectacles so low not even the lenses were a barrier from the formidable stare which attempted to bore deeper than anybody else had managed. Therapy was the recommendation of the consult; that something did indeed warrant further investigation. But it had taken Doctor Vera no time at all to conclude it a largely worthless endeavour unless Leah sat in front of the right person. And the search for that someone was being stalled by a lack of cooperation in choosing who might finally crack her surface. 

Three knocks rapped on the bedroom door, followed by two more after a pause. Her father’s knock. 

“I saw your light under the door,” he said as he peered around it. “Remember what the doctor told us.” 

“Eight hours, Dad." 

His smile was warm. And reciprocated. She found his efforts marginally more bearable, but only on account of them not coming with the criticism that it was her own fault he did not know the rules when he misstepped. That one time his voice broke when he told her he wished to had been enough to make every time since feel genuine also; but she could not tell even him that which she could not tell herself. Sometimes he talked baseball to her instead. And she had no real affinity for the subject itself, but the unavoidable cornering from a father intent on boring a kid with play-by-plays of home runs and strikeouts after each game was a normalcy she would happily take if it could be prescribed. 

“Goodnight, Leah.” 

“Night.” 

She left her bed after the door closed, checked its latch was secure and switched off the light. Some still came through from the windows after she drew her curtains, but not enough to see the full trashcan blocking her return to sheets and pillows. A trashcan not emptied by herself yet, and which her mother had not emptied either after Leah  insisted she could handle things herself. It spilled its contents as her foot collided and she stuffed everything back inside: scrunched homework notes; candy wrappers; dead candles; the stem from the grape bunch she would never admit to eating unless it was the requisite thing to do. 

Her room was not dirty, it was just unpolished. It bore the marks of being lived in. Every evening. Each weekend. Without Ian, she was flying solo but flying nowhere. For six years they had been side-by-side. And the only other person for who she could say time spent together had been time well spent, was the same one who drove a wedge between her and her best friend then left her life themselves. That person could not be reached. Ian however, was still in the hallways, still in the library. Still right there on her phone even if she did not use it as the tool of communication it was. 

His Instagram was a mess of more tents in forests and the kale café he once proclaimed an abomination. Their classmates filled where she once had – another sight around school which could not be missed either. Scrolling his posts from the weekend was further evidence which had not been needed of him landing perfectly well from their friendship blowing up, and further evidence which had not been wanted of her fall into a lonely pit. She scrolled on anyway, found the last photo taken together of their own trip to the forest. Where the end began. He looked just as content in the most recent of his post; another party she had skipped despite attending the year before. His brother’s birthday. 

The Murnen siblings had that orphan bond. They were close enough for the youngest being without his best friend to be noted. She wondered what his reply might have been as she switched to the profile of who might have asked a question of her absence. She knew him mostly from anecdotes. Knew him from the alumni board by the school office she looked over every time she had waited for the nurse with her pain prescription. Did he know Jeff? 

There were photos at Six Flags and Oracle Park. Of his dog. And of vacations to Puerto Rico. But he shared no photos with the one man she needed to understand the leaving of. If Ian was denying being the cause, then another must exist. Another for which there might be clues found among filters and stories. She jumped from profile to profile; those of anybody from school who had older siblings, those of anybody who might have been few enough degrees of separation away to have known more than ideal of her hotel visits and Chinatown strolls. But there was nothing. And even working backwards from Jeff’s sterile, publisher-approved profile of signings and readings produced no new theory. 

Her eight hours were already being eaten into when she went back to the start. To Ian. To the evidence of his flourishing attachments and of her social death. The birthday party was not her scene. Neither was the camping. But that did not matter to the part of her which sank deeper still at seeing every celebration or flimsy excuse to have one. Every hangout. Every concert. Nor did it matter that when again jumping from profile to profile it came to be she knew the names of the kids she looked at only because their handles told her as much. None of it tempered the feelings of missed living. 

She had that once; the Friday night movies and Emeryville Market. And then she had more, was more. Her something finally happened, and wrote her into a real living story of vivid color. Then she had nothing at all. 

The scrolling slowed as the alarm clock approached eleven, sleepiness turning discoverer’s regret into dejection and dejection making her eyelids heavier still. One final listless swipe felled her in her game of avoidance with the weekend’s finish line so close – all silver sequins and that smile nothing could possibly justify the size of. Fucking Fatin. Seen again. In her house again, without being at her house. And tagged. 

The part of Leah which did not need to see more tapped her phone screen to open Fatin’s profile. There were as many photos of handbags as there were headshots, as many flash cars are there were bottle corks and brunches in half a dozen different hotel rooms and homes. Her finger hovered above  _ ‘follow' _ , then pressed to close the app instead. No good could come from that notification being received. 

+++

Drum Circle relocating after the residents of houses which backed onto the South Lawn complained of the noise meant Leah’s lunchtime routine now involved sitting where rhymical spirit once had. Hers and the routine of every other student who did not wish to hear it in its new spot either. She had yawned her way through first and second period, and was kept awake in chemistry only for the smell of whatever went wrong in the test tubes of the desk in front. 

The fresh air of the lawn had enough of a reviving quality to make the afternoon now feel survivable, but enough of an enabling one that the youthful babble which had replaced the drums was being especially raucous. 

Her cell phone was running on less battery than she was, and could no longer be both a reason to keep her head down and a means to not hear what nearby residents were likely no happier with. She heard it herself as soon as the guitar rift from her earbuds stopped, but humming her own cover was not completely unsuccessful in blocking it out. 

A message from her mother was still unread; probably another reminder of information she had not forgotten. It would have remained unread were it not for her cell phone having little to occupy her with now no longer scrolling playlists. Or Instagram. She groaned at being asked what she wanted for dinner, fired off a reply of  _ ‘surprise me’ _ because it sounded more engaged than  _ ‘I don’t care' _ and there really were times she did feel remorseful for the coldness with which she defended her walls now built twice as high. Walls which naturally kept out the right people owing to them being built to keep out all. 

917 555 0198. Her phone still held those messages too. They were buried now, below all the ones of sympathy after the Chevrolet Malibu. Ones which were not unread; but which had received no reply. Ian was first, and had sounded sincere. His message was not an olive branch in itself but had at least signalled openness to one eventually being extended. An openness which failure to respond had closed. It had not been a deliberate move – she ignored everybody. It just happened to be that a rift existed when she returned to her home screen without his kindness being acknowledged, and it had only grown as a result. 

She could see his mop-hair across the lawn, but could not imagine what Colby had said to result in such a laugh. She missed the days when he laughed because of her, when things were simpler. 917 555 0198. She missed the days that number appeared too, with a rush of realized self. But for so long as Ian refused to help bring them back, they could not return. And for so long as Ian remained the possible sender of her birth certificate, neither would the days of them sharing jokes. 

To begin with, she opened Jeff’s messages daily, her eyes always off to the side until after scrolling passed being told to never contact him again. She would lose herself in their earlier times, of what she thought was going to be infinite. They were read less frequently now; when a wave crashed over her, or she just needed distraction. She opened them on the lawn for lack of anything else to do instead. In-jokes had lost meaning already; a good or bad thing, depending on her frame of mind any given day. She was not sure which on the lawn. 

That her humming had stopped only occurred when a rowdiness arrived behind her and she heard it unmuffled, from over by the benches she had decided against. She looked out of irritation, to know exactly who it was had pulled her out of her musing, and immediately wished she had not. Fatin Jadmani, again. Always there. And this time with a grinning howl as obnoxious as whatever Instagram influencer she was dressed like. 

Leah could take no more of seeing what she had forgotten the feeling of. Smiles. Laughter. Friendships. She climbed to her feet and fled in a storm of doleful bitterness, which threated to spill out on her retreat to nowhere in particular. When she stilled, she found herself in the East Building, close enough to the classroom of her next period for heading there to make the most sense. But the door of E120 was locked. There was no better alternative to the auditorium at the end of the hallway. 

The light was dim inside, a stark contrast to the sunshine of the lawn and florescent hallways. But it was not so dim she could not deduce a private corner found, and one which would allow her cheeks to get wet without alerting even if she should not remain in there alone while her walls crumbled. 

She sat in the same seat as when Jeff gave his reading. A conscious choice to connect to him? Or to the girl who had been nondescript in her own eyes, with a wish it would not last forever and the impulse to chase that? She did not know. Did not know either if she sat to connect to the girl born once the wish had been granted. More worldly. More alive. Just more. Her eyes welled as she settled for the only conclusion she could – that a shadow sat there now. Leah Rilke’s shell. Emptied of all promise and spirit; of everything Ian laughed for. Of everything pages were annotated with. 

A tear was wiped onto the back of a hand in the absence of a tissue and she stared at the stage with clearer eyes, to where the podium had stood, with Jeff behind it. To where he had read a book so committed to her memory she could have recited it right there in her seat without it being in hand. It never came to school with her now; to still be carrying around what the class had moved on from might reignite suspicion in whoever revealed her true age. 

Not knowing ate at her worse than the act itself. Jeff was gone, he was not coming back. Her only suspect would not help make it so, insisted it was not his move to undo. If the right person to appeal to would not claim their handiwork, it was a lost cause that 917 555 0198 would once again flash across her cell phone. That much was being accepted. And as she sat in the dark, alone, and with the whites of her eyes surely too bloodshot to remedy before the door to E120 was opened, the Leah Rilke who could no longer smile, wondered for the first time if she would have been better for never seeing his.


	4. Chapter 4

Leah’s parents had made the mistake of not specifying exactly what it was she should leave the house to do. She had indulged them – despite  _ ‘it’s a nice day’ _ not being an especially compelling argument in the state of California – because doing what they asked was preferable to their increasingly relentless attempts to get her to. The leniency shown for her injuries had not extended beyond her being reliant on pain prescriptions, but now her head ached instead. 

A Saturday morning had been chosen by Maryann to take off the kid-gloves; though it started subtly enough, with the temptation of buttermilk waffles and  favored coffee. There had already been two nudges towards the front door by the time the pot was empty. It took only two more before it became apparent that crawling back beneath her blankets would not bring about the usual conceded defeat any longer. 

By eleven, Leah was dressed. By midday, she was at the marina, with her toes in the same water which made the masts bob, and where passing joggers, who had more important things to concentrate on than  _ good afternoon’s,  _ were the closest she came to company. Something her parents had likely envisaged would feature in her day as she said her goodbye – an expectation she had decided to meet. In a round-about way. In a way which had most definitely not been in Maryann’s mind when she floated the idea of Leah venturing somewhere other than a different room in the house. But if an itinerary is left blank, then it will be filled as a person sees fit. 

By three, Leah’s feet had been long dried and walked her back into town, and boats were switched for people-watching by the station. Each one of them, everything which made the East Bay what it was. And each given a speculated meaning for their journey based on nothing but typecasting intuition. She did not know what time it had been when the back row of her English class came out of the station, but when they did, she had no doubt of where they were headed. 

Tyler Gold’s house was tucked away behind manicured hedgerows and stone walls, but she had heard the bass from the street as she waited for commitment to walk through the gates to coincide with nobody else doing so. His front door had been quite literally open, as he had said it would be when he burst into Mrs Wolfe’s English class five minutes before the final bell of the week to invite all inside. Leah had no intention of taking him up on that, until she had. Call it satisfying a longing, or call it being at a loss when the daylight still unfinished – it did not matter why she had walked into his hallway; and the bottle in her hand meant it unlikely she would remember with any certainty. 

A phone call from her mother asking when she might be home again had provided opportunity to recognize that a good move, but it was an opportunity passed on in favor of a lie that she was safely with friends and making up for lost time. In truth, she had been no more sociable at Tyler’s party than she had been in her own bed. 

After a glance around the hallway had revealed no faces she was familiar enough with to impose herself on, she checked the numerous adjacent rooms and found none there either. Not a surprising outcome considering her close circle consisted of one, and he likely boasted the allegiances of her fringe connections by now. And not a disappointing outcome either, because with every room crossed off as having nobody inside for her came greater hope all would finish up clear. 

The lucky bottle she picked from the Gold’s bar had not objected to her company being bestowed upon it, and neither had the quiet room she chose to drink it in. But it was empty now. 

She unlocked the door, made her way through a crowd of waving beer cups and tube tops, sidestepped sleeping hurdles on a staircase wrapped in dollar store tube lights. The bass made her ears sting and her temples pound. She could not hear whatever the guy in the grandad collar was saying. Did not care either. He blocked the way to more liquor, like an opportune warning; but she did not see that any more than she could make out his words. A lucky dodge put a cup of something in her hand, and she left the kitchen, with the grandad collar following behind still not reading signs either. 

“You should come—should definitely—you know Jackson Locey... yeah?” he slurred his offer, or his tale, whatever it was. 

“I have no clue—” Leah started, before thinking better of engaging. 

This was why she did not do Tyler Gold parties. 

“Okay, Romeo” —an intent hand appeared on the shoulder next to the grandad collar— “my girl here has tried, but she’s too nice. So, I'm going to say it on her behalf... fuck off.” 

Sequins must have been the out of school signature because she was wearing more. Or less, depending on the way it was looked at. The last time Fatin’s party wear was noted there had been sparkles down to her thighs, but that dress had been replaced by a strip which barely reached her navel and a leather miniskirt. Leah glared in her direction; to a face full of  _ try me _ and triumph at the same time as it sent the grandad collar on his overdue leave; and she did not soften her own as Fatin turned to her. 

“You looked like you needed that. And not just because he gave April McAdam crabs.” 

Leah’s eyes closed as one unwelcome presence took the place of another, and she worked a crick from her neck before speaking roughly, “I don’t know who that is.” 

“She goes to” —the last of whatever was in Leah’s cup went down with a burn— “it doesn’t matter.” 

“I don’t need you chaperoning me, Fatin,” she pushed herself off the wall, used a nearby bookcase to feel steady. 

The kitchen looked further away than remembered, the route to it littered with empties, but a will as strong as what she wished to drink more of saw her reach the blindingly white island counter without tripping. A hand appeared again, on her own, as she reached for a refill. 

"What do you say to me calling you a ride home, before I have to call you an ambulance? For a second time,” she stressed. 

Leah shook Fatin’s hand loose, but carried no cup as she left through the kitchen door for the garden. The dwindling daylight which had lit her walk up the Gold’s driveway when she arrived was now spent, and she was instead guided to the pergola by a line of sunken bulbs marking the difference between paver and suncup flowerbed. 

Stiletto footsteps followed hers onto its decking, each one of them like a pinprick to the ears, and she spun in their direction to halt them, "I am so... tired of this poor, little Leah—doesn’t know what’s best for herself—shit. I don’t need your help. I don’t need it from anybody.” 

“I’m going to have to disagree on that one. On account of, you know, your record with excessive alcohol consumption and front bumpers.” 

“That is not what happened Fatin, fuck! Fuck you. Fuck all of you.” Her voice cracked as she finished, “That is not what happened.” 

“I think the lady doth protest too much,” she teased, with a soft laugh and smile which said she spoke only with uneasy humor. 

It did not land as such. “I think the lady doth project too much." 

“Excuse me?” 

“I didn’t get drunk and walk into traffic, Fatin. That's something you and April McWhatever would do.” 

“Rude.” Fatin’s smile faded. "Do you think you’re the only one who hears bullshit about themselves in the hallways? I get it—I don’t wear my grandma’s curtains and bring my lunch to school in a mason jar. I also don’t give a fuck that the flock gossiping at the tampon dispenser thinks the only other variety girls come in is vapid whore.” 

Leah let out a laugh, one of indignant amusement, “It’s not the same, Fatin. I didn’t post my doctor selfies and x-ray to Instagram, didn’t parade when going to the school office for my pain meds. It wasn’t worn like some teenage milestone medal. Not the car. Not the rest. None of it was. It wasn't what people think. I’m not what they think of me.” 

“Is that you calling me a vapid whore? Because if—” 

“I didn’t mean it like that." She exhaled, buried her hand in her hair. “I just meant... you play into it. You were too embarrassed to admit to the tutoring thing because it shatters your zero fucks—” 

“No, Leah. That isn’t it.” 

“Then what is it? Because if you’re going to stand there giving me advice which I made pretty clear I don’t need, can you at least come at me from an equal position instead of pretending you being exactly like the girl people say you are feels the same as having your whole world reduced to—” 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Fatin snapped. “This was not supposed to be some handholding, back rubbing joint therapy session shit. You're drunk. I’m not unloading on you regardless. My point was, there will always be people with opinions, Leah. Give your energy to the ones which matter.” 

Leah’s gaze dropped to the floor so that she need not process Fatin’s words at the same time as what looked like disappointment was being fired at her from across the decking. It was a bewildering combination. One which, if the drinks inside her were not impacting her ability to comprehend, said the accuracy of her opinion on Fatin was considered to matter. 

“Whatever. I was just making sure you—whatever. Stay longer. Drink more. End up in the road again for whatever reason you did last time. But this vapid whore doesn’t feel like a party now and is going home before curfew for once to see if it can win her some strikes back.” 

“Fatin, I don’t think that,” she insisted as Fatin walked away. 

Leah stood with only the moths at the pergola, its expected solitude feeling more like isolation.  _ ‘Give your energy to the ones which matter’ _ played over and over, like the same torturous beat which had been the party’s soundtrack. 

She counted the number of people in her life important enough that their opinion of her be a true one. Mom. Dad. Ian? Once upon a time, yes. But she had come to learn the danger of seemingly one-way affection if being discarded with such ease after giving away her heart was anything to go by, and now knew too well the waste that is holding affection for a person with none in kind. To care for Ian’s opinion when he did not wish to know her would be no more a worthwhile use of energy than caring for the opinion of a person who did not know her period. And besides, her fondness for him was a question mark in itself. 

Enough reason had been given for him to turn his back. Rejecting his decency as she lay in the hospital despite his loyalty being questioned in the run-up would justify it, even if the accusation alone did not. Enough reason had been given for all to turn away, and stop trying, and leave her in the pit she could not help them to help her get out of. 

Fatin had concluded it futile too. Five minutes was all it had taken her. The same five minutes in which Leah's book opened more than it had for anybody else, but still the story remained untold. She started a slow walk down the pavers back to the house and blamed the alcohol for her inching nearer to disclosure. Liquor loosening a tongue which sat within walls not yet rebuilt after crumbling in the auditorium. Nothing more than a temporary loss of constraint, brought about by the same bottle which had caused her to misread disappointment on a face. Her opinion of Fatin did not matter to the girl she barely knew, why would it? 


	5. Chapter 5

Polite applause rang around the auditorium for the theatre department’s Student of the Month, or maybe it was the dance department, Leah was not giving the stage her full attention. How could she when her sightline was interrupted by Fatin; eight rows in front, three seats to the left. She had not noticed until after taking her own seat – not that there was much choice remaining to allow for being selective with your view if you wished to be when yours was the last homeroom to file in. Ms Obermeier always made them go last, and probably because she recognized that sitting in the shadow of the back rows released her from faculty obligation to laugh at Principal Stoll’s terrible puns. 

Fatin was sitting next to Tyler Gold. Naturally. To see just her would not have been enough to cause flashbacks to what unfolded less than forty-eight hours prior, only additional hints in the form of the boy whose pergola hosted their clash would see her remembering it. It had not caused a queasiness which made a hangover pale in comparison. Had not robbed her of what should have been the second day of peace before five more of adolescent pressures rolled around again. And had not made her drive to school the most fraught for a week after her mother interpreted the especially pensive mood as two steps backwards, for Leah, for them both. 

Principal Stoll returned to the microphone to begin his closing message. Watching Fatin for the forty-five minutes it had taken to hand out the awards, on top of the deliberations of Sunday and the morning so far, still had not made for sufficient time to decide whether reiterating that she had merely been clumsy with words was warranted. How she might express such after an attempt already felt dismissed, was an unhelpful complication. One which made her shift in her seat as she considered catching Fatin before she would leave hers. 

It needed to be said before the end of the day, to leave it any longer would make it feel an empty afterthought when received. And it must be received. An apology considered unnecessary was surely better than an absent apology where one was expected. 

The lights of the auditorium were switched on. Leah was as blinded as she was startled. She stayed in her seat, the compulsion to watch eight rows in front for the slightest hint of an opportune moment presenting itself early feeling greater than the one to flee. Fatin was taking her time also, because why get stuck in the bottlenecks of the doors when you could instead hang back to chat with Tyler? The two of them did not look to have suffered for Fatin’s early leaving of his party, nor did it look like the reason for her doing so had caused any lasting consequence to her general mood, which made for two ticked boxes in favor of the opportune moment materializing. 

Row by row, the auditorium emptied. A gentle shooing from Ms Obermeier forced Leah to get to her feet and amble towards the nearest exit, but her eyes remained intently forward down the aisle. Principal Stoll brought Tyler’s story to a premature end, which sent him to the exit for the art department, and Fatin straight towards Leah after yelling her goodbyes to Tyler and whoever in the room was called Hannah. 

There was no route for Fatin to take which would not bring them face-to-face. Leah’s amble threatened to become a complete stop as she lost herself to panicked debate over whether the sense of preparedness was required for a moment to qualify as opportune. Each step she took down the aisle was matched by one up it. And the shrinking window to abort was slammed shut when Fatin glanced from her phone to check where she was headed and spotted who was between herself and the door. Her eyeroll lasted for longer than their eye contact had, but she stalled her walk and Leah stalled hers as Ms Obermeier left the auditorium in too deep a conversation with some of the homeroom students to notice one left behind. 

“I have to be across school for next period,” Fatin said coldly as they finally engaged at a distance. 

“It will only take a minute.” 

“I may not be holding the math award, but I know how to count to sixty.” 

Leah’s palms were clammy as she held her jacket around folded arms and fiddled with a button. She knew this was the part when words were supposed to come but none did, and maybe opportune really does mean knowing what to say as much it means having chance to, especially when on the clock. 

“Ten, eleven, twelve...” 

She began with a stutter, “What I said... it wasn’t a statement of you, Fatin. It was me trying to say so much in too few words, because I... really cannot—” 

“Whatever shit you’ve got going on is your business and I’m going to assume it’s some real intense shit otherwise you would have come out with it already.” Fatin looked Leah dead in the eye, “I’m not owed you telling me.” 

“I see it—what you want the people who matter to see—I barely know you but I see it already. Your heart is big enough for everyone but you rightly won’t waste it. It was wasted on me, and I’m sorry for that.” 

It was the sincerest thing Leah had said for longer than she cared to remember. The sort of sentiment which pained whenever she received it because all compliments felt hollow now the time when one person showered her with so many had caused so much grief. She could feel her chest pounding against her still folded arms. 

“It wasn’t wasted, Leah. If you’re cornering me to apologize, then it wasn’t wasted.” 

“It was appreciated, either.” 

“Well, I don’t give to receive,” Fatin laughed. “But okay, sure, my attempt to get you home safe deserved less ungrateful hysterics and bit more cooperation.” 

“I’m not doing too well with grateful, lately,” Leah lamented. 

They exchanged cautious smiles and Fatin closed the gap between them by two rows. “In the interest of fairness, I should own that I didn’t exactly go about it the best way. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I guess we aren’t at the busting each other’s balls stage.” 

“I didn’t think we were at any stage until—” 

“You called me a vapid whore?” she said through a wry smile. 

“I was going to say Saturday night, but yes... I did.” 

“Who would get so drunk she would wander into traffic?” 

“I’m really sorry, Fatin.” 

“Look, I would be a hypocrite if I held a badly executed point after too much to drink against you. And you aren’t the first to not take kindly to me trying to call it a night for good reason either.” 

Leah took a second before offering anything further, “I’m not sure that makes me feel better, but I don’t hate that it’s true.” 

“It’s also true that you eventually will feel better.” Fatin moved two rows again, but stopped short of them standing side-by-side. “I also shouldn’t have left you alone in that state. Having someone look out for you isn’t something to be earned.” 

"Nothing happened after you went home. I locked myself back in the Gold’s study and crashed in the armchair,” she mumbled with embarrassment. 

“That was you?” Fatin’s laugh was one of hearty tease. “He will feel so much better when he knows it was a passed-out Leah Rilke instead of somebody getting railed on his dad’s desk like I said it probably was.” 

“Don’t you dare tell—” 

“I’m joking, Leah! But I do really have to get to class now. Mr Seitz, never forgets.” 

“That will be on his gravestone.” 

“I will have a gravestone if I’m late.” 

They said goodbye with acknowledging looks, the sort you give when it feels like something has just begun and to part with words of endings does not suit. The sort which fill a hole to make you see an end does not have to mean the end of everything. Leah glanced to the seat she had sat in when something else had begun, but that still needed more time than the clock of the auditorium told her there was that morning. 

She put on the held jacket in her arms, headed to the door. The din of passing students on the other side was heard before her shoulder pushed it open; a crack at first, to check for anybody trying to come in the same way and because she would never get used to how much brighter the hallways felt in comparison. She let her eyes adjust before joining the horde. 

“That was a dick move, Leah.” 

The voice came from behind. Recognisable in an instant. It left her disorientated all over again. 

“Using me as your cover like that—dick move.” Ian stood propped against the wall, head down and casually picking at a cuticle, as if it might make it less obvious he had deliberately waited around to confront her. “Your mom has been nothing but kind to me, she didn’t deserve being lied to. And I don’t even know why I did it because you sure as shit didn’t deserve me getting you out of whatever spot you were in.” 

“You were the first thing that—I couldn’t think of anything else to tell her.” 

“Dumb move too. You had no idea my aunt and uncle weren’t home to pick up.” He pushed himself off the wall and approached Leah with furrowed brows which fit his mood but not him, “Whatever you were doing instead, I want no part of it. Whatever game this is, I’m not some piece for you to manoeuvre." 

“It was everyday teenage irresponsibility,” she said soberly, “I was at—” 

“Was it him? Is that who you were with?” 

Her response was swift, stern, “No.” 

“Because if it was, I really don’t think I can stand by and leave you in that kind of danger any longer.” 

“So, it was you?” she scoffed. “You sent the birth certificate and you think the job isn’t finished.” 

“No, Leah. How did you even conclude that from what I just said? Again, because for some reason this is not registering, it wasn’t me who told him you’re underage. But if he has slithered back in despite now knowing it, then I wish it had been me, and I wish I had done more than give the creep chance to run only to turn up again once he thought the coast was clear.” 

“Well thank you for being so matter-of-fact about believing how things actually went down just wasn’t brutal enough for me. I’m sure what we all needed was an even bigger bomb being dropped." 

“What you need, is to learn to recognize the difference between people hurting you and helping you—while there are still people who care enough to help,” he urged before resetting his backpack on his shoulder and marching away. 

Even if he had remained long enough to hear a response, she did not have one. Only honest appreciation could have followed his words and she was not ready for candour, was not ready to face the true scale of the consequences of having shut down all attempts of support, from him, from everybody who had cared enough to try to help. That still needed more time than the bell for second period told her there was that morning. 


	6. Chapter 6

The rules of engagement were rewritten in the days following what could have been a head-to-head in the auditorium playing out closer to a heart-to-heart. Averted eyes became smiling glances, and diverted routes became intended passes. In the hallways. In the cafeteria. After the final bell dismissed them. 

Fatin left most afternoons with Tyler, in his Audi which cost three times his tuition and was always parked across multiple spaces, and on the afternoons when she did, their walk towards the end of their day would coincide with Leah’s own. Much of what the duo spoke of may as well have been in code, Leah could decipher almost none. But she listened intently, for the way it reminded her of times with Ian, and for the way she hoped that same connection might return in whatever guise, with anyone. She and Fatin spoke no words as they converged on the path, spoke none again as one peeled off for the parking lot and the other continued to the street. All that needed to be said was done with subtle peeking over a shoulder from whoever walked in front to whoever walked behind, a quick  _ I see you and I will see you tomorrow also _ . 

It had been two days since Leah had seen Fatin anywhere. Or four if she counted the weekend. It was curiosity which had caused her to entertain the idea of matching Tyler’s stride for his car and casually asking of his missing side-kick; but to do so risked receiving a number of questions in return, and all of them an unappealing confirmation of obscurity. She had made her way home with no explanation and none of the interest in finding one satisfied. 

Stars and stripes and bears atop the pole on the Rickard’s lawn at 173 rippled in a light breeze as she sat at the dining room table not concentrating on the assignment in front of her; that she might have more joy with the words of it if she tried for them in a different corner of the house proving a bust. It was the headspace which needed altering. Working in the shared spaces would have to suffice as being only a progressive step towards opening up to those she shared the dining room with – should they return home in time to witness her having opted against her own desk for a change. 

She closed the laptop, switched to looking at a phone screen instead. Fatin’s Instagram had been checked more than once since discovering it, and seemingly documented her every move, yet could not shed light on the ones which had kept her from school. That Tyler Gold’s postings may have an answer within them was an obvious conclusion and it took no time at all to land on his profile, but his weekend updates could not provide any clues as to Fatin’s absence either. 

Leah scrolled his photos; partly due to the unscratched itch but also because anything was preferable to staring at a blank page she no longer knew how to fill. The most recent photo which included Fatin was sweet, if a little gaudy on his part. Captioned too; and though Leah did not speak seventeen-year-old boy of excessive wealth, she was certain his words meant the house in the background was the Jadmani’s. She was also certain she recognized it. 

A pile of papers sat at the end of the dining table; mail to be filed away or shredded; takeout menus for the garbage which had not been moved there yet; Mrs  Jadmani’s realtor brochure which had appeared following Leah’s accident. Fatin’s mother looked as brash on the cover as might be expected of a woman who left one behind in such circumstances. The house she posed in front of, undoubtedly the same as the one of Tyler’s post and which she was sure would now stand out among Fatin’s own posts of too many flash properties if she were to cross-match. It was also undoubtedly the same house Leah had walked passed the night of Tyler’s party, it had stood out even on its own street also. Though knowing where Fatin lived would not clear up why there had been no passings in the hallways. 

She looked at Tyler’s still open photo, not for the possibility it might now reveal an answer for Fatin’s whereabouts, but because she hoped wherever Fatin was, the same smile might be with her. There was another smile on her phone screen too, in a comment left by somebody whose choice of handle meant nothing to her. A name in their comment did, however.  _ Hannah _ . The same name first heard being shouted across the auditorium on the morning of the award assembly, and which had later been deduced, after sharing so many  end of day walks towards the parking lot with Fatin and Tyler, she liked to call him. 

There was no need for Leah to have a  Finsta of her own, there was barely any need for a profile she openly claimed. But she knew the purpose of one, was sure she had found Fatin’s. She opened it in a beat. Found it to be private, naturally. 

However amicably they existed, there did not feel enough reason to request that she might see what a girl who broadcast so much had decided only select people may be privy to. Not when she had once pulled her finger away from hitting ‘ _ follow’ _ for that which was broadcast, and had still not yet revisited the decision. 

She reburied the brochure at the bottom of the pile, told herself to stop procrastinating on her task of writing two-thousand words of  _ ‘Last, Lest or Lost’ _ . Fatin was likely ill; a late cold or Friday’s cafeteria offerings. Such mundanity was not worth failing a class for. 

Or perhaps it would be, if done so a favor might be returned. 

+

Retraced steps through the hills brought her to the spot she remembered pausing at when the back row of her English class had done so to wait for their straggler. The Jadmani house looked an even grander anomaly in the higher sun – all bright white and clean lines nestled between turrets and pilasters of the street’s Queen Annes and colonial revivals. 

An SUV very much like the one which Leah had watched take Fatin away from her house after delivering the grapes sat in the drive way, not that the house itself had not been confirmation enough that the correct one to call on had been found for delivering a bunch of her own. 

The gates were already open, removing any final hurdle of access, and robbing her of the chance to judge her plan ridiculous at the eleventh-hour while waiting for an intercom voice. She began her walk to the house; so much glass made up its walls there was little possibility she had not been watched on her way to it. The bell was silent to her. And after only a second, the door swung open with a haste she had not anticipated. 

Mr Jadmani stood flustered, correcting his thoughts, “Leah? Forgive my rudeness, I thought you were somebody else.” 

“Am I here at a bad time?” She asked the question, though she did not envisage an honest response. Nobody ever answers yes. 

Rana Jadmani appeared next to him before he could answer, placed her hand upon his shoulder and he nodded a polite goodbye. 

“It’s good to see you looking so well, Leah. What can I do for you?” 

“I was wondering if Fatin was home?” 

Rana’s eyebrows raised, “Did you expect she would be?” 

There was a tone to the question which was hard to place. Inquisitive, but more fraught for the possibilities rather than fascinated by them. 

“I was just passing.” It was neither yes nor no, but still felt the wrong answer to have given for somebody’s sake. 

“I'm afraid Fatin isn’t home,” she said tartly. 

Leah could not be sure if it was Fatin’s absence or her calling when she was so which Rana’s displeasure was aimed at. She offered her quick apology for disturbing so that she might follow it with her quick goodbye, and then parted with the understanding Fatin would learn of her visit. 

That she might leave with the grapes still in her backpack had been considered. But she had anticipated such an outcome being because Fatin was away on a trip with the music department she did not know of, or some other such run-of-the-mill explanation for not being at school or at home. Leah headed back to her own, with five grapes in her hand and an estimate of five-hundred words being found in her head by now if only she had stayed at the dining room table. 

+++

Acoustic covers of songs already mellow enough would have been the perfect choice if aiming to fall asleep in the peace of the auditorium, but Leah had pressed play intending to gear up for an afternoon of physical exertion. That the dance department were filling the faculty gap left by a broken leg meant the hour in the gymnasium was no less demanding. If anything, aches the following day were worse. 

Her morning had been a slog of repetitive formulas only five-hours sleep had not equipped her for. She had crawled into bed early enough, but closed her eyes late on the off-chance she might still receive word of Fatin finding out about her doorstep visit. When they opened again, and probably because the Rickard’s cat was being a pest below her window as it so often loved to be, the alarm clock told her there was more than enough time to roll over and resume interrupted sleep, but further rest eluded her. 

She sunk deeper into her chair, trying to find a part of it she might prop her head on. It took only thirty seconds for her spine to object and demand she sit more sensibly. On any other day she might have  remained contorted, but Wednesdays meant the gymnasium, and it would do her no good to arrive there already broken. 

That she also not  waste her legs before they were needed for dance aerobics had been a deciding factor on a previous  Wednesday when she entered the auditorium and did not sit in Jeff’s seat after finding the drama seniors holding a meeting on its row. She had stayed regardless, picked a different spot, one which did not require so much walking up the sloped aisle to reach. His seat had not been sat in since. It was a conscious choice to not return to it at first; a pause for thought on an action eventually thought better of. Then at some point she had walked passed it with no mind paid at all. 

Her new seat gave a better view of the clock. Fifteen minutes remained on her lunch. There was no music in the world which could energize her sufficiently in such a short time. She closed the app on her phone, removed her earbuds. 

“That was some next level spy shit you pulled—finding my house like that.” 

“What the f—!” she gasped as she shot a look behind her. “How long have you been sat there?” 

Fatin was on the row behind, three seats to the right; as if doing so might make anybody who entered the auditorium think two girls sitting that close in the middle of a thousand empty seats were not in fact together. As if it might make the girls themselves think they were not. 

“Long enough to know your taste in music is questionable.” 

Leah had no interest in arguing otherwise, and could not imagine Fatin sneaking up on her to debate music genres anyway. Nor to sit in silence, but one was threatening to begin and she was at a loss over how to fill it when the only explanation she had for appearing at the Jadmani’s was the truth. If her ill-conceived joke risked falling flat even if pulled off successfully, then she did not rate her chances of avoiding mockery when narrating its failure. 

“So how did you do it?” asked Fatin as she played with an earring right by the tip of her smirk. 

It was another part of the story Leah could not admit aloud, not in full. “Your mom’s brochure; I recognised the house on it from the night of Tyler’s party.” 

“She gave one to you guys? That woman has no fucking shame!” 

Leah left Fatin to shake her head at the audacity of it for long enough that the conversation paused again, then took advantage to steer away from further divulging how Instagram lurking had played a role too. “You’re not so bad at the spy shit yourself, knowing to find me in here.” 

“I would love to be credited with being a nosy bitch, but alas, my locker is like, right outside on the same hallway. I’ve been seeing you come in and out of here for weeks.” 

The implied was not spoken as an insult; in earlier days, to be called a nosy bitch even indirectly may have been perceived as such. But Fatin’s way with words was becoming clearer with every minute spent in her presence. In her company, even. 

“So, are you gonna tell me why you were at my house or...?” 

“Are you gonna tell me why you weren't?” 

“Wow. Did my parents recruit you to the team? Is that the arrangement now, you’re their eyes and ears?” Fatin laughed. 

Leah gave no verbal response, just cocked an eyebrow in the hope mirrored bravado might be respected enough to make Fatin fold. She did.

“Well, if you really must know, I was with a Berkeley guy for the weekend. And it overran because two nights just weren’t enough, if you know what I mean.” 

It was probably the truth, and a truth not all that surprising. Leah did not wish to hear the details, however. If enough time had been spent with Fatin to learn she had a way with words, then enough time had also been spent with her to know it best some subjects be avoided. 

“Your parents seemed really... anxious.” 

“Trust me, they only cared about me being MIA for the final rehearsal of this thing last night. But I was home in time to ace my solo.” 

“Still,” Leah turned to look straight at Fatin, “you should be careful.” 

“Yeah... I think I have a pretty good grasp of birth control, Mom,” she snickered. 

“No, that’s not—I don’t mean that.” 

“Well, whatever you mean—I got it, okay. I’m good.” 

Leah turned to the front of the auditorium again, began to pack away her earbuds and half-eaten lunch. 

“Why are you in here all the time anyway?” 

“It's the only place in school which is quiet enough.” It was not a lie. But it was not the whole truth either. 

“Feels different to be in here without the weird tension of last time,” said Fatin reflectively. 

“Feels different to be in here in more ways than you know.” 

“In the words of every Lit teacher I’ve ever had—” Fatin cleared her throat “—elaborate?” 

“I’m just ending my thoughts where they began.” 

It had seemed the natural thing to do, to sit and cry in the same seat she had once sat dreaming in. Retuning to it felt like a bridging, of the before, and the during, and the after. That she had been the constant, and that the changes were merely chapters, was seen now. To draw a line was to write a new one. 

Fatin groaned, “You English majors are insufferable—all riddles and metaphors in mom jeans instead of speaking plainly.” 

“Just be careful, okay.” 

“Oh, we’re going back to that subject are we, because god forbid I actually influence you enough to start speaking like a normal person.” 

Leah turned her full body in her seat and glared at Fatin for the snipe which would not have cut nearly so close to the bone if not for being packaged with the dismissal of worthwhile advice – even if the intended recipient lacked sufficient understanding of where it stemmed from to recognize it as being such. 

A hint of knowing plea must have been on Leah’s face, something unspoken but expressed with the eyes. “Leah Rilke, are you a dark horse?” she asked bemusedly. “Who?” 

His name stuck in her throat. Like it used to when she had never wanted to say it to another because it would have been dynamite to a dream. Like it used to when she had wanted to yell it after the realization she need not keep up the pretence of not living a nightmare but kept shtum all the same because confronting the fallout felt insurmountable. It stuck in her throat as Fatin watched her because she knew if Fatin ever asked, she would finally say it, and needed a second first. 

“Jeff Galanis.” 

“Of course. Of fucking course it’s him.” 

“Wait, what do you mean—” 

“Author. Who else would an English major drop her panties for? So cliched it is physically paining me to hear it.” 

The auditorium was too dimly lit for Fatin have noticed the  color drained from Leah’s face at the possibility something other than commonality was being alluded to, and neither could she see it return. 

“That book was garbage by the way. I mean, I don’t speak with first-hand knowledge because I didn’t take American Lit, or as I like to call it,  _ ‘Boring Bearded White Dudes 101’ _ , but Tyler did and he says only one kid in his whole class read it, then made bank selling notes to the rest.” 

Leah considered an objection to what was subjective anyway, but the book had indeed hit differently in the aftermath. 

“Question,” Fatin began, “did he ever call you Carrie? Like, by accident? Or was he more open about it being his thing?” 

Leah was white again. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Look, I may not have read it, but I’m pretty sure it’s about a creepy guy who likes them young, and well... there’s a parallel, is there not?” 

“That’s not fucking funny,” Leah snapped. 

As quickly as she had turned to Fatin when her unexpected voice began their conversation, she turned away to end it, gathered her belongings and rose from her seat. This next part needed privacy, and the auditorium would not be that, for once. She ran, as Fatin called her back. 

The door to E120 was open on the opposite side of the hallway, and this time the room itself sat empty also. She ducked inside, hid flat against the wall and prayed Fatin would not think to check the classroom for a hiding place, if she had thought to follow behind at all. She dropped her backpack to the floor and flopped her head against the frame of a pushpin board as it was now twice as heavy as it had been when only sleepiness weighted it. 

Fatin’s words had not been wrong. They had been wanted. Needed, in fact. If anybody was likely to side with the dying thought that her time with Jeff truly had been the story for the ages it once felt, that person was Fatin. To hear the contrary said had pained – not because the drawing of this particular line was done suddenly and with a blunt edge across the heart; Leah had taken herself close enough to stepping over it for the moment of final acceptance to not sting – but because it had been said with unforeseen words, of an unforeseen warning. Fatin had spotted the clue. The one which might have prevented all her troubles had she not interpreted it as an inspirational fairy-tale.


	7. Chapter 7

"Your father and I are leaving now,” Maryann said in the doorway of Leah’s bedroom, which had remained open following an earlier announcement of Saturday morning being spent at the store as usual, “don’t still be in that bed when we get back.” 

Leah bit her tongue. To point out she was technically on her bed, not in it, and that she had in fact been up and showered while her parents still slept, would only delay them being gone. 

There was no more she could have done to inspire productivity but her laptop had closed on the final mouthful of morning coffee, and all that had been accomplished since was giving her mother the impression no attempt to clear a backlog of papers and projects had even occurred. 

She scowled her goodbye and received the hint of one in return before Maryann disappeared without closing the door behind her. 

Saturday morning trips for groceries usually took an hour, or closer to two if stopping for breakfast on the way, but that part of the ritual had been passed on lately, so as to not waste time which could instead be spent badgering. An hour respite was better than none at all. Leah waited in the peace for noise of the front door latching before she let glum lethargy close her eyes. She had all which was required for sleep but tiredness. 

The words of the auditorium had been an echo for the rest of the week, and she had reverted back to playing by the old rules of engagement while she processed them. Or tried to. It had done her existing regret no favor to learn of a missed sign which had said to steer clear. Sleep was all that truly spared her, but without a teacher to force that her laptop remain open, her pile of assignments would not succeed in replicating the distraction of school in place of unconsciousness. 

“Knock, knock.” 

Leah jolted on her bed, "Fuck! How did you even—stop sneaking up on me like that!” 

“Your parents let me in on their way out. I don't have grapes this time, but I do have this barely-passable chain latte. Definitely not as many vitamins in it, but you can have a sip.” 

There was a smugness on Fatin’s face, an irritatingly cocked eyebrow much too pleased with itself for managing to make it to the bedroom undetected for what had surely been an intended fright. 

“What do you want, Fatin?” she asked gruffly. 

Fatin stepped further into the room, and for a second looked as though she might be moving to sit on the bed but she instead opted for a chest in the corner. 

“I should have connected the dots. That big cloud you’ve been under—I should have seen it was to do with him and treaded more carefully. Apparently, I still don't know where your limits are.” 

Leah was not certain even she did at times. The seemingly never-ending exchange of scowls with her mother was testament to that. 

“I would be a hypocrite if I held a badly executed point against you,” she offered, knowing it had been neither Fatin nor her tone which had caused such a fleeing from the auditorium in the first place and that she was instead angry with only herself. 

“You sure would.” 

Fatin glanced from corner to corner again, as she had done on her first visit, but this time it really did seem she was judging, or was at least struggling to relate. The pink and purple of her camo corduroy were a headache in a room of otherwise unbroken earthy pastels. “Claremont Canyon?” she asked confidently. 

Leah responded impassively, “What about it?” 

“The squirrel on the window—Claremont Canyon, right? I still have one too. But like, obviously mine isn’t on display. We really do have the strangest rites of passage in the Bay.” 

“I’m not really in the mood to hangout and reminisce about middle school field trips.” 

“Good, because I’m not here for that,” she said as she jumped to her feet. “My parents have this stupid BBQ this afternoon and Mom asked if you were coming, and like, why the hell would you be? But then she said she would invite your whole family. So now I have to get at least you there otherwise she will get you all there. And you do owe me a favor, for the ambulance—which is really a favor to yourself as well, because you don’t need our mothers being besties any more than I do.” 

“Yeah... no. I’m not coming. Just tell your mom we’re busy this weekend.” 

“Won’t cut it. The BBQ will become a dinner invite now the seed is planted.” 

Leah turned away from an insistent gaze, “I have shit to do.” 

“And it sure looks like you’re doing it.” 

For whatever reason, being told to get up and make something of the day by Fatin did not irk as the same order from her mother only a few moments earlier had done. “Fine,” she conceded, after very little persuasion. “I will come for one hour.” 

“That’s my girl! My house at three—” Fatin skipped towards the bedroom door “—you know where it is.” 

“Is that it? You’re leaving?” 

Fatin’s reply came from down the hallway, “I have shit to do.” 

+

Leah was rooted at the bottom of the Jadmani driveway with even greater trepidation than the first time she had stood there with the intention to walk it uninvited. Fatin had failed to mention who else would be attending, and all which could be safely gleaned from their cars lining the street was that enough people were inside for her stay being a short one to go unnoticed. 

She pulled her phone from a pocket, then bemoaned that numbers had still not been exchanged already so that Fatin might know to meet her at the door instead of risking a repeat of the previous disappointment caused by her presence at it. But perhaps Fatin was watching from a window in anticipation of her arrival? She was not especially comfortable with the thought of that either, given how long she had been awkwardly paused for. A glance at the clock on her phone screen told her she was neither too early nor too late, and she decided her hour had started. 

Mr Jadmani again opened the door to her, more hospitably this time; and if a love of accessories was genetic, then it was clear where Fatin’s proclivity for gold and silver came from as his watch slipped down his wrist when he gestured Leah inside. Everything was more of the same bright white and clean lines, save for the Mori rugs decorating walls and floors. Were it not for the obvious sounds of a social gathering, the Jadmani home might have easily been mistaken as a pristine show house for the one percent. 

Fatin appeared in the hallway as quickly as hoped for, though it took a second to recognize her in colors as dark as her hair. 

“Dad, if it’s fine with you, this guest doesn’t need the tour and a thousand greetings.” She grabbed Leah by the arm and dragged her towards the stairs, “My room is this way.” 

“I thought BBQ’s where an outdoor thing,” Leah said as she eyed who filled the garden. 

“I didn’t invite you here to mingle with the half of our mosque my mom hasn’t yet made clients out of, you’re here so I don’t have to be out there.” 

“Oh.” 

“I’ll still feed you, I do know how to entertain. Besides, you’re better off in my room. Trust me.” 

“Because I came dressed as an English major and nobody else is?” 

“No, because—well, yes—but also because the only bar we have is under my pillow.” 

That she might be drunk when returning home to again sit down with her assignments had not been considered when Leah had mapped out her evening; but all sober attempts to finish them had been unsuccessful, so what was there to lose? 

Her eyes scanned the bedroom as Fatin’s had when their roles were reversed. It was a clash of Fatin and the rest of the house. The same pop art and slogans which were typically across her chest adorned the walls to add color to their bright white, and every surface was covered with ornament or ointment. But Leah was not judging, she was simply regarding. The differences. The similarities. And to no room but her own on account of Fatin’s being the only other bedroom of a teenage girl she had ever stood in. 

A leopard-print scarf had fallen from a hanger and was draped over the cello in the corner. Fatin removed it, threw it onto the bed before digging beneath its pillows. 

“I’m afraid it’s vodka or vodka, I didn’t have chance to restock.” 

“I haven't even sat down yet.” 

Fatin waved in the general direction of a dressing table stool, which looked to be doubling as a dumpsite for school textbooks. Two glasses were poured by the time Leah was sitting on it. 

“A toast,” Fatin began, “to our mothers. May they never choose our friends for us again.” 

+

The vodka bottle had not been full when the cap came off, but enough had left it in the time since for Leah to no longer notice the stool she was sitting on lacked adequate cushioning. Or that her sixty-minute promise had morphed into an afternoon of guessing at what secrets each BBQ guest harbored after running out of school scandals to entertain them. All which remained was to reminisce about middle school field trips after all. 

“So where is Samson?” Leah asked. 

“Who the fuck is Samson?” 

“The squirrel. Claremont Canyon. Where is yours?” 

“I’m choosing to believe you actually remember that name because the guy in the squirrel suit scuttering around on the floor scared you for life rather than it being because it’s the root of a fetish. He is probably at the back of the closet behind Betty.” 

“Who the fuck is Betty?” 

Fatin gestured to the cello, “My bane and my baby.” 

“You call your cello Betty? Why?” 

“I wanted a Maltese. My mom wanted me to have a cello. She said I could have the dog after I started classes. Never got the dog. Would have called her Betty.” 

Leah snorted, “I’m sorry, but the ability to not laugh at sentimental cheese is one of my first inhibitions to go when drinking.” 

“I’m familiar with the others,” Fatin smirked. “That's your last glass anyway, I haven’t promised to behave only for a frien—for you to cause one of your usual party scenes instead while my dear mother is brownnosing.” 

It was the second time Fatin had used that word since arriving, and Leah might have set about picking apart why it had been harder to say after drinking than it had been when sober were it not for the fact objecting to what followed it felt a greater urge. Though it was an objection which only flashed on Leah’s face on account of there being an accuracy to the incident pattern Fatin spoke of; and maybe that was at least partly why she was keeping count and had only drank two glasses to Fatin’s three and a half. 

“Touché." She swilled her drink around, "Betty is much cooler than a dog, by the way.” 

“Betty is a yappy little bitch who jumps on your bed at four a.m. to shit on your face because you won’t let her out to shit in the garden. Now stop talking about her before my mom overhears and realizes she hasn’t forced me to go play for the guests yet.” 

Leah sighed into the glass which was now at her lips, “So you weren’t joking when you said that’s why I’m here. I’m your shield?” 

“Look, Betty and I... it’s complicated. But I’m not a circus animal to be wheeled out whenever my Mom is chasing more commission.” 

“You shouldn’t resent your talent, Fatin,” she said ardently, “not everybody has one.” 

“I don’t, not really. I resent that it comes at the expense of being me. I resent that my Mom loves Fatin the cello virtuoso and the rest is a fault to be corrected.” 

Leah fidgeted on the stool. “You lied about tutoring that kid because that’s the part which isn’t you, and I made out like—” 

“The bit which is authentic is my act. I won’t deny that I play it up sometimes, you were right about that. But it’s not to be fake. It’s a release to finally let her out, and it feels too damn good to rein her in.” 

“A toast—" Leah raised the last of her glass “—to the Fatin whose only talent is pulling off double-camo.” 

“To Fatin the vapid whore.” 

Shame still fell on Leah’s face whenever reminded of the insult. And maybe it always would do, even if Fatin had repurposed offence into a tale to hark back on affably whenever it was in her own interest. 

A knock on the bedroom door caught Fatin mid-sip and turned it into a long gulp, which Leah copied. 

“Just a second,” Fatin yelled, as she set about the quick concealment of the vodka bottle and now empty glasses, and Leah may have fumbled the passing of her glass were it not for the hand which reached out to take it doing so with enough composure to suggest it well-rehearsed. Fatin covered the evidence with the leopard-print scarf of earlier and then sat back down. “Okay, we’re decent.” 

Her father poked his head inside the room, then opened the door further before speaking, “Fatin, the Kahars are here now, please come to greet them.” 

She groaned as she got to her feet from the bed, and it seemed as well-rehearsed as knowing exactly how to go about hiding their alcohol. A hand smoothed her hair and dress before she turned to her father in the doorway, “I know where the garden is, Samad. I don’t need an escort.” The smirk was playful, like she knew exactly which button she was pressing. 

He returned it in kind. 

“I know where the garden is, Dad,” she corrected. 

“Of course. I’m just taking in the sight of you with somebody you will actually let your parents see,” he laughed. “Excuse us, Leah.” 

Fatin left the room muttering that she would not be gone long if it could be helped. But any time at all would be a struggle to fill when the only thing to do in her absence was feel like an intruder among the fur coats and earrings. Leah remained on the stool, feet flat to the floor and elbows tucked by her side. To be found anywhere but the exact spot she had been left in would be a question too difficult to answer. 

She looked to the sequins hanging from the doorframe of the closet, and to Betty beneath them, looked also at the leopard-print scarf wrapping what had been offered the second she arrived and had been hidden the second Samad did. His jibe of Fatin having company had a discernible undertone now the quietness of the room allowed for a moment of reflection on it. One felt already, when she had learned Fatin’s room was as close to the BBQ as she would get. One which fit seamlessly with all the talk of authenticity and acts. 

The noise of the garden filtered in through the now open door; a garbled mix of polite but likely self-serving conversation, and somewhere in among it all were the pleasantries of a Fatin dressed in a façade. Leah sat in the silence of her room, and not even the ticking of the watches on the dressing table was loud enough to concentrate on instead of the games playing out the garden. 

When Fatin returned to the room, she did so with the same groan as when she had left it. “I told my Mom the next time she hosted one of these stupid things she wasn’t allowed to do it in our own home, but here we are again—me dressed for a fucking funeral and feeling like it’s my own every time I get paraded as the model daughter to a load of sweaty strangers.” 

Leah was still searching for the right reply as Fatin flopped herself on the bed and continued her rant with her arms as much as her mouth, “I mean, have you ever heard of somebody deciding to sell their house because the realtor's daughter offered them goat cheese bruschetta? Because I sure as shit haven’t.” 

The glass beneath the scarf by Fatin’s head stopped clinking as her waving did, but none of the same animation occurred on the stool. Leah sat still, stewing. 

“So, what did you get up to while I was gone?” Fatin said as she rolled to onto her side and propped her head with an arm, “I’ll say it straight—I know exactly how many necklaces I have, so if you’ve got one in your pocket, I would just put it back. No judgment.” 

“I haven’t stolen your shit, Fatin,” Leah retorted. 

“Chill, it was just a joke.” 

“I was actually sat here wondering how far this whole  _ for the sake of appearances _ thing really goes.” 

Fatin sat up on the bed and looked at Leah quizzically, “I’m not following.” 

“It struck me earlier—I even said it at the time—I’m your shield. That’s the only reason you invited me, right?” she glared, “So that I could be paraded myself, to your parents.” 

“Holy shit, Leah. I was gone for like, five minutes. You were fine when I left you.” 

“Just answer the question.” 

"Okay. I will hold my hands up high enough to admit that, yes—you being here does me a huge favor in stopping my parents thinking absolutely everything about my social life is a danger,” Fatin moved on the bed, swung her legs over the edge closest to Leah, “but if you think it was my only reason for inviting you, then you’re wrong. I did genuinely want you here out of like, friendship, or whatever the fuck this is." 

“Friendships don’t usually have ulterior motives,” she spat. 

“It wasn’t an ulterior motive, fuck! It was a... convenient bonus.” 

Leah rolled her eyes, “I’m going home.” 

There was a finality to her tone. One which said it would be wasted effort to think she might be as easily convinced to stay for longer as she had been earlier in the day when her mind was changed to being there at all. 

Fatin got to her feet as Leah did – and regardless of whether it was a conscious decision of hers to stand between Leah and the door or whether it was sound awareness recognizing that to stand in the small space at the foot of the bed instead would have meant they stood too close together – the easy route to leaving the bedroom was now blocked. 

A pleading smile for emotions to calm was not enough to bring it about. Leah’s face remained fierce with rejection of both Fatin and her attempt to persuade that the afternoon need not end on such a troubled note. 

The rebuff caused equal contempt. “Let’s not pretend me turning up at your house didn’t make your parents beam too. Both times,” Fatin sneered. 

“Difference is, I never invited you under the pretence of friendship.” 

“Again, it wasn’t a pretence.” 

“Whatever,” Leah pushed her way passed Fatin and made for the door. “I’ve honored my hour.” 

++

She was not drunk. She had not even been close this time. Helping to finish the last of Fatin’s stock was a factor, but it was not the explanation. It was certainly not an excuse. If she could sit at the dining table as her parents ate dinner and they be oblivious to her having left her bed for day-drinking, then it was not fair that her meltdown be dismissed as simple consequence of it. 

No question had been asked of why she herself did not wish to eat. It had become expected that she no longer joined her parents for meals, except for when they fussed enough. And she had not returned home in time for them to insist on cooking for three. Something would be found in the kitchen when she felt like finding it. Maybe in the morning. Definitely not before she had five-hundred words. 

Only thirteen were on the page, and the only reason they had not been scrapped was because her attention was instead on her phone. Her finger hovered  _ ‘follow’ _ on Fatin’s Instagram profile as the sound of cutlery against plates and trite talk of what Sunday would have in store for her parents filled the space around her. There was still no entry in her phonebook for Fatin. To return to the Jadmani’s house and knock unexpectedly upon their door had too many uncertainties. And to send a follow request in place of herself had the uncertainty of exposed creeping. Yet the wish to acknowledge overaction in Fatin’s bedroom, and before the day was through, considered both options a worthwhile gamble. 

Her finger pressed the screen. It was a safer bet to try the method which had not once already left her stood on a doorstep feeling an inconvenience. She placed her phone on the table as even that was no longer a distraction now, and half-turned to her parents' conversation for lack of any alternative. Her father was insisting they be home from somewhere in time for the baseball, her mother being non-committal to the condition. No obvious contribution could be thought up but she was trying for one when her phone pinged. Twice. 

She smiled as she looked at the screen, saw Fatin had followed her back from her Instagram and also granted access to her Finsta with a follow of her own. And Leah must have given an audible indication that her choice of uncertainties had paid off because all talk of Sunday paused. 

“You should make the most of that, Leah. When you get to our age, your friends think it’s too late to bother you after six,” her father said with a laugh for himself. 

“Anybody we know?” Maryann probed.    


“Fatin.” 


End file.
